


Tinkering With Your Parts

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [244]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Love Potion/Spell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 18:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18288143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Illya drinks something he shouldn't. Napoleon has to deal with the mess.





	Tinkering With Your Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Love spell. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator%22).

“I told you not to drink that, didn’t I?”

Peril just laughs, _laughs_ , like the bastard’s not a dead weight tangled in the stretch of Napoleon’s arm, a big Russian dummy whose hair is askew and general person is rumpled and who’s acting, frankly, like the complete and total opposite of the man, the partner, the teammate whom Napoleon has, against his better judgment, come to know. Gone are the ramrod straight posture, the perpetually disapproving frown; in their place, there’s a looseness in Illya’s face and his gigantic body that are forcing Napoleon a) to tow him like a drunken cruise liner through the streets of Budapest; and b) to remember how young Illya is, comparatively. Too young to have fought for Stalin’s army; too young to remember much of life before the war, too young to know anything about himself that really matters: who Illya is, how he thinks, what he values--so much of that is still rooted in what he was taught and not in choices that he himself has made. Napoleon would like to meet the man he’ll be in ten years. If they’re both still alive.

Which they probably won’t be if Napoleon can’t get this sloshed beast back to their hotel and put to bed in one piece.

“You told me nothing," Illya says, still giggling.

Napoleon grits his teeth. “I most certainly did. The second I spotted that raven-haired creature making eyes at you, I said, _don’t drink anything she gives you._  And yet you did.”

“It was vodka.”

“It was not. Clearly. Come on, have you ever gotten this blotto from a single shot of your mother’s milk before?”

Peril makes a thinking sound. “Mmm, no.”

“No. Like I said. So it wasn’t vodka that you slammed down the hatch there, my friend.”

Napoleon tugs them around a corner and the street goes from humming to dark. Off the beaten path, yes. That seems best. He's sure they’ve shaken Miss Raven Hair, but one can never be too careful where the other side was involved.

Peril careens a little, a kite caught in an updraft. Napoleon has to yank to reel him back in, his grip slipping from Illya’s elbow to his hand.

“What was then?” Illya says.

“What was what?”

“Tch, Cowboy. Drink. Thing in glass.”

“Something meant to dull your edge, undoubtedly. And make you act very much not like yourself.”

Illya gives an annoyed little huff. “But I like myself.”

“Of course you do.” Napoleon checks the tracker on his watch and feels his face blanch. Jesus. Another mile still to go? Fuck. It'll take an hour at this rate.

“And I like you.”

“Which is exactly how I know that somebody’s being tinkering with your parts, Peril. You sound utterly deranged.”

Illya’s fingers are enormous and warm. Also suddenly, painfully tight. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Another squeeze and Illya stops, a deadweight in the center of the darkened road that brings Napoleon to a halt in his tracks. “Napoleon, _no_.”

There’s a flare of anger in his gut, a split-second of battlefield fury. “Damn it, Illya! Stop fucking around. We’ve got to--”

And then, much to his goddamn surprise, Napoleon finds himself jammed between a literal wall and a hard place, said place centered in Illya’s ridiculous corduroy pants.

“I like you,” Illya says, sloppy, the words sweet air from a desert. “I like you so much.”

“Peril--”

Illya’s hand is on Napoleon’s hip, pinning, the other pawing greedily at his waistcoat. “So much,” he breathes again. “I think about you sometimes and it makes me”--a shot of his hips--“ _oh_. Oh, Cowboy. It makes me want--”

If Napoleon were a good man, or even a decent one, he’d shove Illya away. He’d slam his palms on Illya’s shoulders and kick out his legs and make a run for it, get far enough apart for reason to reassert its appeal. If Napoleon were a good man, he wouldn’t be hard like this, getting harder, every cell in his sadly sober body awake, thank you, and damn well ready to sing. But then, if he were a good man, he would have told Illya how gorgeous he was, long ago; would’ve set aside his pride and knocked on Illya’s door in Brussels, in Chicago, in Rio and kissed the shit out of him, like the man damn well deserved, like Napoleon had ached to do for ages.

If he were a good man, he wouldn’t let Illya touch him like this when Peril was so clearly fucked up, so clearly up and out of his mind, but Napoleon isn’t a good man and prides himself and tonight is the clearest evidence he’s had in ages that this approach is a goddamn ideal. Especially when he curves his hands around the swell of Illya’s ass and gets a hungry little grunt in return.

“What do you want?” he murmurs over Illya’s chin. “Hmmm? If you can say it, maybe I'll let you have it right here. Tell me.”

“Kiss you.”

“Yes.”

A shudder. “Touch you. Your big pretty cock.”

“I see.” He brushes his mouth over Illya’s cheek. “And then?”

“Watch you touch me.”

This is a terrible idea, in every sense and shape possible. Miss Raven Hair could have found their trail. Gaby’s probably worried. And, at two o’clock in the morning, the whole street is probably asleep and something wonderful tells Napoleon that Peril in his pleasure will be very, very loud.

There’s no choice to be made but one, then. Obviously. And it is, it’s to say:

“Do you want to watch your dick spurt in my fist, Illya? Is that what you think about at night, hmm? Your cock creaming my hand?”

Illya makes a small, desperate sound, one that makes Napoleon's knees fall to jelly. “Да, Cowboy. Please. Yes.”

The colors of the night are deepening, bleeding, and Napoleon’s skin feels like it’s fire, a paper tiger immolated by the press of Illya’s body, the soft, sweet stretch of the breeze. “Maybe I want you to suck me off,” he hears himself say. God, he sounds fucking trashed. But he can’t be. Can he? “Would you do that for me? Get on your knees right here where anybody could see?”

“Yes,” Peril says against the heat of his mouth, inside it, and god, Illya’s lips feel so good that it _hurts_. “Yes, любимый. Yes, Napoleon, please. Whatever you want.”


End file.
